


PHILISTINE

by meclea



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Smut, the reader's genitals are not specified so have fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meclea/pseuds/meclea
Summary: The very moment you meet him, you know he's going to be A Problem. The Louche Devil shakes your hand with a glint in his eyes and a suggestive stroke of his thumb across your wrist.





	PHILISTINE

**Author's Note:**

> The poem used in this story is called The Swing and was published in a Victorian-era erotic literature magazine called The Pearl, which only lasted a year and a half before authorities shut it down for being too lewd. I didn't use the whole thing and changed some words to be neutral to gender and sex organs.

Storylet: Instructing a Louche Devil  
_Lazy, brutal, beautiful, amoral even for a devil, brimming with tigerish cunning. The Brass Embassy despairs of him. Can you teach him how to act among humans?_

_Jasper shows the young devil into the theatre and introduces you, listing your achievements at Court and singing your praises. The devil raises an eyebrow like a lick of blank ink, and shrugs. 'Very well,' he drawls. 'Teach me what you know.'_

* * *

The very moment you meet him, you know he's going to be A Problem. The Louche Devil shakes your hand with a glint in his eyes and a suggestive stroke of his thumb across your wrist.

Elocution, posture: these things he resists with the stubbornness of a bull. But once you've coaxed him through these, the subsequent lessons come easier. To your immense surprise, he takes to the concept of morality, but in ways that would make a clergyman reach for laudanum, and if you find it endearing at all, well, you will not make it known to him. His litany of  _But why not?_ often results in him badgering you to extend the lesson beyond the time you've allocated to him. Politics prove more of a challenge, as he cares not for it. "Why not just take what you want?" he asks the first time you bring it up, and you absolutely _do not_ blush when he looks you up and down with a slow sweep. It's not as sexual as it seems, you remind yourself. He's interested in something else. Oh, yes. You learned your lesson long ago in that debacle with the Affectionate Devil. At least _that_ heinous creature had class. This one...

Well, he has in spades a charm of a different sort, that's for sure.

It's when you get to the attire of a respectable being that real issues begin to manifest. You take him to your preferred tailor, who cuts her eyes at you like a Ravenglass Knife when you explain your predicament. "You want me to clothe...a devil."

You both turn to the topic of your discussion. The Louche Devil is currently sliding up to a very young gentleman browsing bowties, curling a slow, suggestive grip about the boy's arm, speaking quietly about something or other. You think you can hear the words "good time" and "alone," and the boy flushes and looks scandalized, harassed, and a bit aroused, if his bloated pupils are anything to go by. Your responding "Yes" is drawn out and painstaking.

You pull the devil off of his would-be prey, who scurries out of the store within seconds. "You costed me a wonderful experience," the devil grumbles at you.

"And you costed me a customer," the Snappish Tailor says to him. To you: "You'd better be buying a lot for this brute. I'll not lose revenue to clothe him."

While she disappears to prepare her changing-room, you feel a firm body press up against your back, muscled arms winding around your waist. "You'll give me a wonderful experience instead, won't you?" the Louche Devil says into your ear, lips close enough to tickle. His voice resonates through your body in a way that promises―

 _Patience._ No, _restraint._ As you often have to when in his presence, you remind yourself that his version of a "wonderful experience" is different from yours. Steeling your mind, you pry apart his arms and gracefully step out of his reach. "We'll have a wonderful experience taking your measurements and commissioning fashionable attire for you," you say. Oh, good, your voice comes out much steadier than you feel.

Just as he opens his mouth to retort, the Snappish Tailor whips into the main room again. "Ready for you now. If you know what's good for you, you'll be quick and obedient so I can get you back out of my store."

Back in the dressing room, the Louche Devil tries to make a spectacle out of stripping, but the Snappish Tailor has no tolerance for it, barking orders and reprimands at him until he's in as foul of a mood as she. You hide your laugh behind your hand as you try to look anywhere but the musculature of his nubile form.

A few weeks later finds the devil dressed in his newly-tailored finery. The Snappish Tailor has truly outdone herself this time; the tailcoat is all black, adhering to the current fashion trend, and cinches his waist strikingly. The trousers, when he removes the coat, are similarly tailored to accentuate the long cut of his legs. His grey vest clings to his torso like a sleek second-skin. The Puzzle-Damask Silk ascot he wears is a flash of mahogany against the dark cloths, a color that makes his eyes flash with a brighter hue of gold than usual. He has six of such outfits now. The tailor charged you higher than their worth, but you paid it without even so much as haggling. You pity anyone that has to deal with his drivel. But when he shuts up, he looks like a feast for the eyes.

"My dear," he says, more grandstanding than ever, "tell me I look ravishing."

You gulp. You hope he doesn't see the sign of nervousness, but his eyes flicker to your neck and linger there before he smirks, so there goes that chance. No, don't let him gain the upper hand here. He won't pass up the opportunity to press you for something beyond what you've been hired to do. "If you're dressed like that, Society will surely accept you as an upstanding representative of Hell. Unfortunately, they'll scorn you right to the Tomb Colonies when they find out that your appearance belies your atrocious manner of speech and character."

He sputters indignantly. You smile and pat his cheek, feeling in control once more. "There, there, dear. That's why I'm here. We'll make a gentleman out of you yet."

He has little patience for the arts and their subtle intricacies, but he must be feeling extra magnamonious today. You cite poetry, you discuss emotions and religion and scientific theories. The devil takes it all in. "So," he says at the end of the lesson, "your own soul. How... attached are you, really?" He begins to turn everything you've taught him back on you. Those big, yellow eyes are hypnotic...

You come to with a jolt. Yes. He's definitely learnt from you. And you've made him very dangerous.

"Do not try that again," you say, hiding your fear with a tone that portrays barely-contained anger, "or I swear on the Queen's knickers that I will send you back to the Brass Embassy and tell them that you are not capable of any exposure to civil society, and _they_ can deal with you, because I will _not._ "

The look he gives you is somehow both petulant and cowed; he's sorry for being caught, not for trying at all. After a deep breath and a pinch to the bridge of your nose, you say, "Go. Your homework for next week is to memorize a poem of at least ten lines and be able to recite it with proper pronunciation and stresses. We'll work on rhythm and delivery then. Now get out."

He leaves with nary a glance over his shoulder. You frown. You know him, and you know his modus operandi. Either he's honest-to-God embarrassed at his failure, or he has something else up his sleeve.

It's the latter. Of course, it's the latter. Because if nothing else, the Louche Devil is damnably persistent _._

"I have a poem," he announces the next time he arrives at your lodgings. He forgoes his new finery for black wool trousers and, daringly, he wears no vest under his frock coat, which he puts on the coat hanger when he closes the door behind him. He locks it.

You sigh and go to unlock the door. It's a custom by now; he locks it, you unlock it, and neither of you mention it. Almost like a secret handshake. "I know we've talked about this before, you wretch. Exposing your bare shirtsleeves is something you simply  _cannot do_ in polite company."

"I know." His smile is a nefarious curl across his smug face. "The things I want to do in present company are anything but polite."

Don't blush, don't blush, don't blush. You heard somewhere that devils can smell arousal; you don't wish to test that validity of that rumor. "You're deplorable," you sneer.

Your acrid reaction doesn't dim his cheer in the slightest. "I think you'll like this poem. Please, have a seat."

Slowly, you lower yourself onto the chaise lounge by the fireplace. You have a bad feeling about this, and bad is an understatement. Anything that brightens the devil's expression this much is bound to be disasterous for bystanders.

He begins: _"It seems I find myself forsworn, Two lips I have beheld; Still lovelier, on this happy morn, A mount that those excelled!"_

No. This is not happening. _No._ "No," you say, standing up.

"Sit," he says in a voice that fills the room with a dark, commanding tenor. You're sitting before you realize it. The devil smiles and takes a step closer to you, continuing, _"For chance has shown me all that lies Beneath your virgin zone; Sure never seen by any eyes Of man, save mine alone!"_

Oh God. You can't keep the flush from searing your face. The low rumble of his delivery is enough to set you off, but combine it with his steady eye-contact―and honestly, it's eyefucking at this point, if you're being honest with yourself―and you're already squirming uncomfortably in your seat. You pray again that the rumor about devils' sense of smell is wrong. The Louche Devil is close enough that he can lean over and grasp the back of the chaise with one hand, his close vicinity making you shrink back as far as possible. He's still looking at you with that intense golden gaze as he goes on. _"As o'er my face the swing I drove, As wider flew your thighs; The opening heaven itself of love Met my delighted eyes!"_

"You're dreadful," you whisper. "Terrible. The _worst―_ "

"I don't see you pushing me away, my dear," he says with a stroke on the outside of your knee, "and I certainly don't hear a 'No.'" You make some choking sound and he smiles. The hand doesn't leave, instead slowly creeping up the length of your leg. _"Yes, I've beheld the carnal space, Where the graces centre; I've seen the rosy, nectar'd vase, Where who you love shall enter!"_

Your breathing takes up a pathetic, trembling rhythm. Slowly, waiting for your protest, he untucks your top from your trousers. When no protest is forthcoming, he shifts over you onto the chaise to free his hands, letting them begin the project of unbuttoning your shirt. He never looks away, not once, and his eyes are as hypnotizing as ever. When it's finally done, shirt and underclothes freed of their fastening, he doesn't take them off you. You feel debauched. He grabs the outside of your knee again (and hell, you never knew that could be an erogenous zone, but you feel that touch throughout the whole of your body before it settles between your thighs) and slowly moves it towards you and then out, leaving a space for him to slide into. He hooks the knee over his back and grinds into you with one sinuous movement. You will not admit that the noise you make is a whimper.

_"While from between your uncross'd thighs, A warm and savoury breeze, Full in my face, it sweetly flies, Loaded with ecstasies!"_

"Please," you choke. He chuckles darkly and kisses you, a hot, slick mess of tongues and teeth. Like a dam cracking apart, your restraint breaks. Your hands twist into his shirt; you can't be bothered with the buttons, and honestly, he should be prepared for the consequences of his actions, so you feel no guilt about tearing the thing off of him. He seems unbothered, if the widening of his smirk is anything to go by.

"Let me finish, I've one stanza left," he says. His tongue finds your neck, slowly laves over it. One of his hands has undone your pants and now pulls it down, first over one leg, then the other, now off completely. That hand, big, rough, with beautifully knobbed fingers, comes up to start stroking over your underwear, a slow and firm drag. The sound of your gasping breaths must be what he's looking for, because he finally ends his poem. _"Alas! I now am so enthrall'd, That henceforth when I gaze, Upon you, I'm forced to recall The beauty on this chaise!"_

It's so...endemic to this situation. Through your pleasured haze, you push out your accusation. "You made this up!"

"Improvisation, my love," he says. Is it that, or had he planned this? You have no time to ponder. He strips your underwear off completely, hoists you up by slinging your thighs across his shoulders and wrapping his arms around you, and immediately puts his mouth where you need it most. He worships your sex with the same reverence a clergyman worships his God, with devotion, patience, and enthusiasm. His tongue knows a cruel twisting motion that makes your toes curl in the air.

He fingers you open while sucking on the flesh on your hips and the insides of your thighs, leaving bite marks and burns. Pain and pleasure ricochet through your body in a confusing array of sensation. It's hot, so hot, and his fingers feel so good when they slant and turn just so. He's familiar with this. He has probably stolen a lot of souls like this. Fuck. Did the Affectionate Devil really teach you anything at all?

Rather than easing in, the devil sheathes himself in you in one fast, smooth motion. You cry out but grip onto him tighter. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw, and begins small, undulating movements that feel good without overwhelming you with friction. "I swear," you gasp, "if you―while we're fucking―"

"It would be so easy, but would require―ah―more concentration than I would care to give, at the moment," he grunts out, finally thrusting into you in earnest. He laughs breathlessly while he finds his rhythm, the slick slide in and out more addicting than any laudanum. "Do you know...how much poetry has been written― _hah_ ―about the poet's own cock? You damn humans are.... _hngh_ , obsessed with your own genitalia."

"You just recited me a poem― _a-ah!_ ―about mine, so y-you're not one...one to judge."

A particularly hard thrust has you keening. "I'm only interested in yours, so don't, oh, _fuck_ , don't fault me with that." A hand smooths down your chest, your stomach, reaches between your legs again. " _Mmm_... Let's hear your own poetry, sweetheart, sing for me."

And you do, oh, you do.

After it all, your sweaty, well-fucked body is still the receptacle of a soul. The Louche Devil is only a cuddler because he can't be bothered to get up. "This chaise was a gift from the Duchess," you tell him, trying to sound more cross than you are.

He hums. "Puzzle-Damask Silk is my favorite thing to fuck on, that's for sure." You swat him, and he laughs. "If I had known that all I had to do to get you under me was recite lewd poetry at you, I'd have done it long ago."

"Get me under you?" you question, brows furrowing. "I thought you were after my soul, not after an affair."

"Oh, I am still after your soul," he says, eyes glinting. "But the Brass Embassy made it clear that the only reason you're able to teach me is because they commissioned Jasper and Frank to find an instructor for me. And Jasper and Frank are acting on behalf of the Masters, who are acting on behalf of the Bazaar. Ergo, taking your soul is an act against the Bazaar, and I shouldn't do that while I'm taking lessons from you."

You scowl. "Why didn't you tell me that to begin with?"

Laughing, he bites the tip of your nose, and you have to fight down your own smile. "I didn't know if you would believe me. And it's so fun watching you fight my advances."

"I'll recite a poem to you next time about burning hatred and revenge fantasies," you say, straight-faced. He just laughs again.


End file.
